


Sharp in Matters of Foe

by Purplesauris



Series: Beroya and Jetii [3]
Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Din Djarin Removes the Helmet, Din adopts a feisty twelve year old, Force Sensitive OC, Gen, Good Parent Din Djarin, Her name is Pavru, I don't want anyone to get triggered but she is..., Mentions of Starvation, POV Original Character, boba fett is a good uncle, fennec is a good aunt, i don't make the rules yall, literally an orphan so she's Hungry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-03
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-16 20:22:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29830413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Purplesauris/pseuds/Purplesauris
Summary: She's been alone for so, so long. She has no one, and needs nothing more than credits in her hand and a heart in her chest. Until she meets a mandalorian, and everything is tipped on its head.
Relationships: Din Djarin & Original Character(s)
Series: Beroya and Jetii [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2187339
Comments: 9
Kudos: 55





	Sharp in Matters of Foe

**Author's Note:**

> I am obsessed with Din being an amazing parent and if that means i get to self indulgently write about him and my oc, then OH WELL.

Hunger and Fury were her constant companions.

Hunger curled up like a lothcat in her belly, scratching and cramping in the small space, reminding her each time she moved or smelled something spicy, that it was always with her. A friend which she never had to doubt would be with her, clinging to her bones and ensuring that anytime she got too comfortable, had a bit too easy a day, it would be there, urging her to give up. To settle down and never recover.

Fury was quieter, softer. Like a blanket around her shoulders, hunched over her head to block out the wind. It washed over her forehead, pressed behind her eyes and colored everything she couldn't have, didn't have the skill to  _ take _ with a film of bloody, garish red. Until it was all the color she could see, the Fury all she could hear in the thudding of her heartbeat, the rushing of blood in her ears. It whispered to her of all the injustices she faced- goaded with each new bruise, each harsh buffer, or pitying look.

Hunger and Fury were her constant companions, of which she would never, ever run out. 

She’s driven to the market by hunger, though the scent of cooking womp rat, the scent of cooking  _ anything _ is a torture to stand near. When she’d first been dumped on Nevarro barely clinging to life and left for dead, she had avoided the city entirely. It had taken her a month or so to even creep close enough to see the steady stream of bounty hunters in and out. Going into the market after that was a considerable risk, what with the plethora of guns, but that just meant she had to work a bit harder. It was easier to snatch credits, small trinkets, and sell them in the same market that the bounty hunters dealt in than it was to steal from vendors.

No one asked where she got her credits, or where she got the pair of binocs, or a nice vibroblade- items were exchanged, money passed hands, and she went on her way, back to her little hole in the wall, where she and three other girls stayed. The building had been condemned at one point, but Pavru couldn’t read, and so it meant nothing to her as she hollowed out a space and tucked herself in for the night. It had meant something when others had found it, when she’d fought them for her space, and came to an agreement to share, so long as their things were left alone. So far, they’d all honored the deal, and she, being the oldest at 12 standard years, had taken her own room.

It isn’t much, but stars, how she aches for it now. Hunger gnaws at her stomach as it always does, and all she wants is to curl up under her ratty blanket, close her eyes, and not wake up until the suns are down. Instead she’s at the market, slipping through the crowd, fingers dancing over pockets and nabbing what she can. It’s been a slow start, a relatively quiet morning, so when she spots a flash of silver, a sweep of navy, her eyes are drawn without thought. 

He lingers on the edge of the crowd, t visor dark, head physically sweeping the crowd, and her mouth nearly waters at the thought of how much food she could get for  _ anything _ off of him. She’s been here long enough to know what he is, to know that he’s going to be a hard target. A mandalorian isn’t someone she can just waltz up to the way she could someone else, so she watches, and she waits, pausing by carts and occasionally buying things. She keeps her eyes off of the mando in silver, not wanting to give herself away, and hopes that the scarf wrapped around her head hides the shock of white-blonde hair. It’s as much an indicator of self as much as is her horns, and if something  _ does _ go wrong, she can’t afford to be seen. 

He stays on the edge of the market for far too long before finally diving in headfirst, and she frowns when the crowd parts for him. They flow around him in a bubble, conscious of his presence, and that won’t do. She needs them closer, needs the crowd tighter, and she huffs out a loud breath, a pulse bursting behind her eyes as someone goes stumbling. They bump into the mandalorian, jostling him, but the mando only straightens him before nudging him away without a word. Once he’s been touched once, won’t lash out, the crowd presses in again, and he’s swallowed up by the sea of people..

A thrill goes through her, a grin briefly twitching at her lips before she masters her excitement and bobs her head in a nod at the lady manning the cart she’d stopped at. Her stomach grumbles as she eases through the crowd, aware of the way she looks, and keeps her eyes carefully downcast as she weaves through the crowd. She makes sure to bump people occasionally, as if drunk, so when she finally, finally makes contact with silver, metal digging hard into all the angles of her ribs, she’s hardly noticed. She bites back a cry of pain- the metal is  _ hard _ , and she isn't expecting to hit so hard, but her hands know what to do even if her brain hasn’t caught up, and careful fingers dip into one pocket, then two, before finally wrapping around a metal cylinder on the man’s hip.

She takes it without rational thought, heart pounding and that same pulse of  _ something _ flaring in her head, brighter and brighter until she can hardly see. So bright that she doesn’t register the fingers closing around her wrists, holding her in place as the cylinder clatters from her hands and the feeling of leather bleeds in through her consciousness.

“Hey-” His voice is rough, rough and low and it scares her instantly.

It scares her so much that she does the only thing she can think of- she brings a knee up, slamming it into the man’s groin, and basks in the savage pride of watching him crumple. He goes down onto his knees, ash puffing up around them, but she’s an animal- hardly more than the fury in her veins, in her  _ head _ as she slams fists and knees and painful, pointy elbows into all the soft spots she can find, and delights in the way that he lays, prone, as her foot jams against his ribs, drawing a wheeze out of him.

Voices murmur around them, crowd parting, and she ducks down to grab at the cylinder still in the dirt, taking one more look at all that silver before backing away and turning to sprint. The voices grow louder, protesting, but she’s weaving through the crowd, small body slipping through the cracks and eyes wild. There’s a commotion behind her, the clank of metal, the creak of leather, and then the whisper of something long and thin whirling. Pressure flares in her head, hard and hot, and she spares a glance back to find the crowd dispersed, the mando’s arm extended as a ripcord wraps around her legs and pulls mercilessly tight. 

She goes down on her knees first, the ash of the market only slightly dulling the impact, and then her cheek hits, pain bursting through her face as once again the cylinder flies from her hands. She reaches for it, arms still free, something pulling and begging and yanking inside her, and she sobs when it slaps into her palm. She clutches it to her chest as she’s dragged through the dirt, dirty clothes only getting dirtier, and she snarls when a boot rolls her onto her back, eyes wide and teeth bared.

The mando stands above her, light bouncing off of his shoulders, and she hisses when he bends over, orange tipped fingers prying the cylinder from her hands. “You don’t want this.”

She reels back, gathering herself, and spits as hard as she can, grinning when it lands with a wet thwack against the expanse of all the shiny metal on his helmet. He goes still, as if waiting for something else, and she watches as his head tilts to the side, as if assessing her. His hand goes to his blaster, fingers sweeping along the grip, and terror lodges itself in her throat as she struggles. The cord around her legs bites in, going tighter, and she’s reaching forward to try and yank at the end when blaster fire cracks in the air, temporarily deafening her- she misses the sound of a body hitting the dirt, though she doesn’t miss the hard thud that echoes through the dirt.

The blaster is still smoking when he straightens out of his odd little lean, shoving it back into the holster at his hip. “Get out of here.”

His voice is quiet, still rough, but people listen. They disperse, slowly, but no one goes to help her, to keep her away from the claws of a mandalorian. They know better than to meddle, especially here, and she doesn’t beg- she doesn’t cry, or scream, or struggle even as he reaches forward. No, instead she bears her teeth, watches him, and bites the meat of his thumb when he gets too close, pointed teeth digging in through leather, harder and harder as he swears, loud enough to ricochet through the metal of the helmet and echo in the market. 

“Let go.” His voice is only minorly edged with pain, so she digs her teeth in harder, until bone grinds and he swears, other hand coming up to press and press at the soft spot by her ear that makes her jaw open as pain flares through her. He yanks his hand back, and she can see blood welling through the torn leather of his glove. She turns her head, spitting once more, this time in the dirt as she shoves herself into a sitting position. “Did you know what you were trying to take?”

Her glare is cutting, but he doesn’t seem phased as he sighs, reaching forward and avoiding her mouth as he hoists her up and over his shoulder. The position is humiliating and shameful, and she struggles against his shoulder, metal digging into her stomach as he holds her tight, barking out a command to stay still. She doesn’t, and he lets her drop hard into the dirt twice before she gets the message and settles, seething, on his shoulder. She has no clue where they’re going, but they meander the streets of the city, past hunter after hunter, and she wonders if they think she’s a bounty-

She knows what she looks like though- too skinny to be an adult, too bony to be dangerous. She looks like a kid, and she wonders just what people must be used to, if a mandalorian carrying a child through the streets to who knows where isn’t suspicious at all. They pass her house, the windows caved in and dust clinging to all the stone, and she renews her wiggling once more, showing the girls peering through the dust that she isn't going willingly. That she doesn't want to be taken, even if she can't get free. 

The mandalorian notices her wiggling, pausing midstep, and turns toward her building. Her eyes widen, horror crawling through her as he stands there, regarding the building with some impossible to discern emotion. She jolts when he speaks, and his voice is too soft for a kidnapper. "You stay here?"

Her lack of response is more an answer than anything, because the man sighs, shoulders slumping a bit. 

"Is there anything inside you want?"

"I'm not going with you." She snaps, like she has a choice, and he heaves another sigh before carefully setting her down. He stoops a bit to get to her height, head tilting to the side again, and she has a sudden thought to spit again. He seems to be waiting for her to do something, so instead she stops, just glaring. Glaring, and trying not to fall over with her ankles so close together. 

They linger there in a silent standoff for a long minute before the mandalorian speaks again. "You can't stay here."

"I  _ can _ -"

"That man in the market. He was going to kill you."

"Me?" Her voice squeaks in her throat, cracking, and the mando nods. "He doesn't even  _ know _ me."

"He knew you stole from me. As well as anyone else dumb enough to ignore you in the market today." His voice softens more, if possible, and some tiny part of her brain whispers that he's only being nice. But no one is ever just  _ nice _ . "You can stay here, and hope they don't do anything. Or you can go get your things, and come with me. Deal?"

Wariness paints her, muscles tensing and fingers drumming against her thighs. She bites the inside of her cheek, the flair of pain easing the jumbled mess of her thoughts, and she feels, on some unknown level, that he's telling the truth. She realizes, with startling clarity, that instead of throwing her to the wolves, this mandalorian saved her. And now she owes him.

Eventually, she feels her shoulders slump, and she gives one small nod in agreement to his deal. It's better than being stuck here, waiting for a shot to the back or a knife in the ribs. "Can I say goodbye?"

She nods her head toward the house, and he nods, something warm drifting from him. She doesn't know what it is, but it puts her at ease and she doesn't like it. She stands stock still as he crouches, carefully unraveling the cord from around her legs. He's hesitant to touch her more than he needs to, and she finds herself grateful again that he doesn't overstep boundaries. That he isn't pushy. Once the cord is unwrapped and retracted back into the metal of his arm guard he stands, gesturing toward the house.

"Take your time. I'll be here when you're ready."

She looks up at him, frowning, but then scurries into the waiting darkness of the house. The girls she lives with huddle around her as soon as she comes inside, eyes wide and imploring. They ask a thousand questions-  _ is he going to hurt us? Has he come to kick us out? Why are you packing? Where are you going? _ But she doesn't have any good answers for them, so instead she wraps them in hugs that make her skin crawl at the touch, because they deserve it and because her throat is too tight to speak. She only has a set of clothes and her blanket, as well a small stuffed tauntaun that she stole years ago to gather- the tauntaun had been white at some point, but the dirt and ash of Nevarro had soiled it, and she spent too many nights holding it for it to look nice. Shame flushes her cheeks when she steps out into the light holding her meager possessions, but the mando doesn't mock her, instead inclining his head and murmuring.

"Done?"

She bobs her head in a nod, shifting on her feet, and he gives one last look at the house before waving for her to follow. The fact that he turns his back on her is both insulting and reassuring, and she follows, fingers worrying at one curved horn on her tauntaun as he leads her out of the city and toward the port. She hasn't been this far from the market and the rest of the town since she was dropped in the lava flats, and all the open space makes her nervous. Hunger cramps at her stomach, bile rising in her throat, and she forces the feelings down by drawing in a couple of unsteady breaths. 

The ship that the man takes her to is huge‐ even  _ he  _ looks small next to it, and when the ramp lowers, the man striding up it in two large steps, she hesitates at the bottom. It hits for the first time that she's about to leave- she's going to leave and she doesn't know if she's ever going to come back. Panic flares in her chest, constricting around her lungs, and she can feel wetness against her face but- but Nevarro never gets rain and- the mandalorian is at her side quickly, though he doesn't reach out to touch her. 

"Hey." His voice is gentle this time, startling, and she looks up into the dark t of his visor. "I'm not forcing you. You can go back home."

The word clangs through her uncomfortably-  _ home _ . That place wasn't home- those girls weren't her family, and the fury is back, slamming against her forehead as she shoves past him and storms up the ramp. She leaves him at the bottom, maybe bewildered, and stumbles through the dark interior aimlessly until she finds a nice secluded cubby and jams herself inside. It's a tight fit, even with how small she is, but having three walls around her, protecting her, is more than she could hope for, and she buries her face in the worn fur of her tauntaun.

\--

She wakes up to the glint of light coming off of his helmet, and she bangs her head on the top of the cubby as she jerks awake. Her heart thuds unsteadily in her chest, beating against her ribs, but he only tilts his head and holds out a foil wrapped package. She eyes it suspiciously, nose wrinkled, and the man sighs before unwrapping it and snapping a small piece off. She watches, fascinated by the small strip of skin as he lifts his helmet enough to pop the piece into his mouth and chew. 

The helmet goes back down, sealing with a hiss, and she snatches the ration bar from his hand, tearing into it with abandon. He watches her as she eats, resting in a crouch as if his armor weighs nothing to him. Her stomach is still cramping when she finishes, and she wipes at her mouth with the back of her hand. 

“Are you still hungry?” Her suspicion is back again, but he only sighs, as if he expected this. Another bar is produced from one of the pouches on his belt, and she grabs it out of his hands before he can open the package. She tears through the foil to get to the bar inside, and eats it in three big bites, cheeks bulging. It draws a quiet laugh from the mandalorian, and he reaches out a hand. It’s gloveless- she can see the small scars from her teeth circling his thumb, and she frowns. He’s healed already? “Can I look at your legs?”

“Why?” She demands, eyes narrowing as she shoves herself deeper in the cubby. His shoulders slump, weary, and she suddenly feels bad for being so snappy. Not enough to apologize, but enough to take his hand and allow him to guide her from her hiding place over to what looks like a sleeping cubby. 

The cot isn’t terribly comfortable, but she only perches on the edge while he tugs her pant legs up to look at the marks left by the cord. There are welts from where the cord bit into her skin, even through her pants, and he holds her ankle gently, turning her leg a bit to see where the worst of it is. 

“I’m going to use a bacta spray to speed up the healing.” He says, and she frowns again. It seems an awful lot like a waste to use it on just marks, but he’s the one buying it so- she holds very still as he mists her legs with it, skin tingling as it goes on, and she watches, fascinated as the marks on her legs begin to fade. She rotates her leg, reaching down to touch, and he catches her wrist gingerly, aware of the way she jumps at the touch. “Your fingers will go numb.” 

“Don’t touch me.” She jerks her hand back and he lets her, holding his hands up in a placating gesture as he straightens up out of his crouch. She moves to go back to her cubby, but he holds a hand up, and she pauses. 

“The cot is yours. The door closes, so you can have privacy.” 

“I…” His care is startling, if she’s being honest, and completely overwhelming, and she glances back into the cramped space. Well- cramped for a man in full armor, but for her? It should fit her just fine, and she sets her things behind her on the cot. “Where do you sleep?” 

She asks mostly just because she wants to know where to avoid, but also because it doesn’t make sense for him to be so  _ nice _ . He has to want something, or there must be a bounty on her head, because she stole from him in broad daylight and then beat him up, so he can’t  _ like _ her. But he huffs out something that sounds distinctly fond, and her heart aches in her chest as he jerks his head toward the ladder nearby. 

"In the cockpit."

"Can I see?"

The man pauses, regarding her, before his head tilts, and she's beginning to think he does it without thinking. But there's that noise again, the fond one, and then he takes a step back, gesturing to the ladder. "Don't touch anything." He warns, and that's all she needs. 

She goes scrambling up the ladder, bare feet cold on the metal, and ducks through the open door, stopping in the middle of the cockpit with a gasp. Stars smear against the glass, engines humming as they fly through hyperspace, and she’s never seen so much  _ blue.  _ Blue and white and smears of red-tinged purple on occasion. It lights the cockpit up even more than the control panel does and she creeps forward, hands fluttering in the air nervously. She was told not to touch, so she doesn't, digging her fingers into her arms as she wraps them around herself. 

There's a noise behind her, the soft shuffle of fabric, and then something heavy and warm is being draped around her shoulders. The fabric is a rich navy, well worn and warm, and she clutches it closer. She didn't realize how cold it was in the ship- when she turns to thank the mandalorian she finds him capeless, form slimmer without the billowing bulk of it. She opens her mouth, dumbfounded by his kindness, but his gaze is pinned to the viewport. She draws the cape a bit tighter around her, shivering, and tugs the scarf off of her head. It catches briefly against the points of her horns, but she plucks it off without a thought, holding it out toward the mandalorian. 

His head turns toward her, tipping down, and he reaches out for the scarf. His touch is gentle, hesitant, and it's dirty, the purple fabric frayed at the edges, but he reaches up and secures it around his neck, covering the dark fabric of his flight suit. He leaves it cocked to the left side, off center, but there’s a symbol on his right shoulder- a mudhorn shining bright, and he doesn't seem inclined toward covering it up. She stands there, staring at the acceptance of her own gift, and turns away when tears well in the corners of her eyes. She keeps her gaze firmly on the viewport, counting the seconds until her throat loosens, and then she asks, voice scratchy.

"Where are we going?"

"Tatooine." He answers instantly, and that's another thing that chips at her- he hasn't lied to her that she can tell, not yet at least, so she ventures another question.

"What's your name?"

"Din." Is the short reply, and though he doesn't ask back, he inclines his head, and she finds herself speaking.

"Pavru. I don't have a surname."

"Do you need one?" For a minute she thinks he’s being serious, but there's a lighter note to his voice and she hesitates only for a second before huffing out a laugh. Or what she thinks is a laugh. He seems pleased enough by her response though, and his hand finds the pilots chair, spinning it as he sinks down into it. He speaks without looking at her, hands drifting over controls, and she gets a nod back toward the door. "If you want to freshen up, it's the door next to the cot. We'll be landing in an hour."

Her nose wrinkles at the thought of a sonic shower- they never leave her feeling clean, and the vibrations jar through her horns. She disappears down the ladder regardless, going to grab her other set of clothes before locking herself in the 'fresher. Her face is gaunt, shadowed in the small mirror, but her eyes are bright. Curious. Both because of her sudden situation, and because of the mandalorian who saved her instead of slaying her. 

She turns from the mirror, intent on figuring out the shower, and squeals in shock and delight when water shoots down, dripping ice down her spine until she figures out how to work the temperature. He has water on the ship.  _ Water _ . She knew, she just  _ knew _ she was going to get something by targeting him- she just didn't expect it to be a cot, a warm shower, and a meal. She spends too much time under the water, scrubbing at her scalp with soap that smells like mint until she can't smell the sharp sulfur of lava anymore, and only then does she reluctantly rinse off and step out. She dries off with a towel left on the sink for her, dressing in dark leggings and baggy shirt. None of her clothes have ever fit her well- she looks every bit the child she is, and she's a little sad to put on such dingy clothes after a shower. 

She doesn't have a choice though, so she dumps her other clothes on the cot and wraps the cape around her shoulders again, hoisting herself back up into the cockpit. Din doesn't look up, but she knows that he’s aware of her approach, and he gestures to the seat to the right of him. The air hangs heavy around them as she sits, buckling herself in, and she draws her legs up against her chest, crossing her ankles and trying not to fidget. She sits like that for a few minutes, clenching and unclenching her hands, before finally she can't stand it anymore and blurts out, "you have water."

She gets a quiet chuckle at that. "The water recycles through the ship."

"Why not have a sonic?"

"Can't relax muscles with a sonic." 

"It's  _ expensive _ ."

"Not if you steal it." That's definitely a jab at her, but instead of getting angry, she lets out a startled bark of laughter that drowns out his little hum. 

"Why are we going to Tatooine?" Din glances over at her, head turning, and she stares into the dark glass of his visor, frowning, until he turns his head and answers.

"A friend needs help." 

“What kind of help?”

“The Mandalorian kind.” She…. Doesn’t know what kind that means, but she’s going to find out soon. Sooner rather than later, because her impromptu guardian’s hands go to the yokes, holding tight as they drop out of hyperspace, and all her food threatens to come rushing up her throat. She can hear herself burp somewhere in the panic of plummeting through space, but by the time they jitter through the atmosphere and sweep down over dune after dune of sand, her stomach has settled again. 

She keeps herself buckled, mostly because when she goes to unbuckle she can see the shiny silver of Din’s helmet as it whips toward her, pinning her with a look. Instead she cranes her neck as far as she can, peering out of the viewport to take in the sight of… sand. Sand, and large white machines studding the landscape when they pass over a town. All the buildings are the same color as the landscape, and really she isn’t sure what she’s expecting. Maybe a  _ little _ bit of color?

They fly for another few minutes before they come upon a large, sprawling compound. There’s another ship already parked, big and green and ugly, and Din lowers the ship down next to it, fingers dancing over the control panel to shut the ship down with easy movements. She stays in her chair until he’s standing, and then scrambles after him, cape clutched around her shoulders and hair curling as the temperature of the ship rises a couple of degrees. Din heads for the ramp, sand sweeping in instantly, and she takes one look at the sand, at the binary suns, and her bare feet, and lingers at the top. 

The mandalorian stops at the bottom, turning to her, and he spots her bare feet at the same time she takes two steps down. The metal of the ramp isn’t quite warm yet, but the first touch of sand on her toes is searing. 

“I can carry you.” He offers, hands outstretched, but she shakes her head, peering at the distant doorway and steeling herself. Sweat beads on her forehead under the sun, wrapped in Din’s cape, but she doesn’t think about it, instead taking off over the sand like a shot. She yelps at the heat of the sand on her feet, between her toes, but she makes it to the cool stone under the awning of the doorway and stands there, hopping from foot to foot as she watches shiny beskar trudge along behind her mad dash. His only words to her when he finally reaches the door are, “I’m not putting bacta on your feet.” 

That’s a little mean, considering he wasted it on her legs, but she doesn’t point that out. Instead she makes for the door, peering up at the keypad and waiting until Din punches in a series of numbers and the door slides open. The sight beyond is dark, foreboding, and she chooses to let him lead as they descend stairs, the air cooling around them as they go deeper. She expects it to stay dark, brooding, but once they get into the corridor itself, lights lining the top and bottom of the walls light their way.

The halls are sprawling, twisting and turning on themselves, and she doesn’t know how he can keep the different halls straight when it’s all brown. Briefly, she thinks that he’s leading her in circles until she’s so lost she can never get out, but it only seems that way. They come up to a large doorway, this one more ornate, and he doesn’t pause as he ducks through the doorway into a large cavern. She doesn’t know what else to call it, mostly because it’s large, cavernous, and basically empty. There’s a huge grate in the middle of the floor, old and half rusted, and when they walk toward it and she peers down into it she sees nothing but black. She skirts it completely, skin crawling, and glances up at the raised dais before them.

There are weapons along the back wall, decorative or useful she doesn’t know, and a woman in jetblack turns, gun strapped across her back. She spots them first, though no shock registers over her face. 

“Mando.” She says, voice cool, polite. Pavru likes the other woman instantly, enough to miss the huge hulk of a man sitting on the throne. At least for a few seconds before he moves, and all her muscles lock in terror. Another mandalorian sits on the throne, legs wide and helmeted head resting on a fist, elbow braced on the arm of the chair. “Finally deigned to join us?”

“I’m a day early.”

“Day late for the pregame.” Her guardian snorts, a rather undignified noise, and she glances up at him. She expects him to be tense, what with the mandalorian on the throne watching them, but his shoulders are relaxed, hand nowhere near his gun. 

“I ran into some trouble on Nevarro.”

“Would the trouble be the little one hiding at your side?” The voice that rumbles from the man on the throne scares her more than Din’s did, and she finds herself reaching for Din’s hand. She clutches it without thinking, eyes wide, and he squeezes back, subtly edging in front of her. “Another foundling?”

“She needed help.” 

The mandalorian on the throne laughs, as if that was the last thing she needed, and she ducks behind Din a bit more when the man moves. It’s only to remove his helmet, leaving it abandoned on the arm of his chair as he stands from his throne and descends off of the dais. He's shorter than she expected, and though terrible scars twist along his skin, marring the side of his cheek and curling around the back of his head, his face is kind. The fact that he shows his face at all is perhaps what warms her to him the most. 

“Is that true, little one?”

“ _ He’s _ the one who needed help.” A brow quirks at that, the mandalorian’s lips twitching, and his eyes flick briefly to Din before he tilts his head. Just like Din.

“Why is that?”

“I fought him.” She says, proud of the fact, and again those brown eyes flick over to Din, observing him. Her pride wanes a little when that gaze turns on her, dark and intense, and she shrinks back a bit. Din never said he’d be so  _ intimidating. _

“Did you really?” She nods, trying not to squirm, and finally a small, pleased smile breaks over his face. “How’d you bring him down?”

“Boba-”

“I kicked him in the nuts.” Boba freezes at that- she knows his name now, and then laughs. The sound is warm and rich, surprising her, and she finds herself smiling too. He laughs for a minute, as if he can’t believe it, but then he sobers, and she’s struck by the whiplash of his sudden command.

“Do it again.” She blinks- once, twice, and then again, wondering if she heard him right. “Go on.”

And well, she isn’t going to say no to the man with a gun on his hip and all the strength of a bantha, so she turns to Din, eyes wide, and knees him in the nuts. Din goes down like a sack of rocks, groaning, and Boba laughs- brighter and louder than before.

“I fucking  _ hate _ you-” Din groans from the ground, curled up on his side and ankles crossed.

“Do you want a cup yet?” 

Din mutters expletives that she’s never heard before, but definitely wants to use. She looks up toward the other man- Boba, and only jumps a little when he rustles her hair, face fond. Normally she'd snap at him, go for his fingers or something, but it's only her hair and… something warm and reassuring drifts from him, putting her at ease, and she's learned to trust her gut. So she doesn't try to bite his fingers, or kick him. Instead she allows this small touch, and ignores the way her skin prickles. Boba looks down at her, though she’s only a few of inches shorter than he is, and murmurs something in a language she doesn’t know. It sounds distinctly affectionate, and she tilts her head. 

“You are  _ not _ .” Din says while struggling to stand, as if in reply to what Boba said, and she reaches without thinking to tug on Boba’s arm. 

“What did you say?”

Boba’s grin grows, and he chucks her under the chin, glancing over at Din for a moment before he speaks. “I was just saying it’s a shame that he took you as a foundling. With that spunk, I think you’d do well on Tatooine.”

“With you?”

“That’s his objection too.” The other man says, and she giggles at that. Look at her, actually  _ giggling _ . The noise feels so foreign to make, but something in Boba  _ and _ Din softens at the noise, and she looks between them two of them questioningly. “C’mon. You look like you’re one meal away from passing out, and I bet he doesn’t have anything other than ration bars.”

“Is that bad?” She asks, wondering if she’s the only one who thought they were pretty good. Boba just gives her an assessing look, brow raised, and turns, heading out of the throne room.

That’s how she ends up at a low table, sitting on a pillow and tucked between two men in armor, a plate piled high with food. There’s grease on her fingers, her cheeks, but she doesn’t care, sharp teeth tearing into the leg of whatever bird they’d somehow caught. She hasn’t seen or heard a single bird since they landed, but they  _ have _ to be around somewhere. She isn’t the only one eating with gusto, though Boba is much neater about it, and Din is increasingly drawn toward the food. 

Eventually, it proves too much for him to resist, and he draws an exceedingly red dish toward him, spooning some onto the plate in front of him. She watches, once again fascinated, as he moves to lift his helmet. A hand finds the back of her head, turning her away, and she glares up at Boba as he clicks his tongue chidingly. 

“Don’t stare.”

“Why not?”

“It’s disrespectful.”

“Why?”

“Because he doesn’t want you to see.”

“Why?” A muscle tweaks in Boba’s jaw, but she stares up at him instead, frowning. “You take  _ yours _ off.”

“I’m not mandalorian.”

“You’re not?” He smiles, sadness edging in, and she slurps rather noisily at the grease on her fingers, just to make that sad look go away. He wrinkles his nose, passing her a napkin, and she wipes at her fingers and face instead as he answers. 

“Not like he is. They follow a Creed. Have you heard of it?” A shake of her head has him continuing, and she feels eyes on the back of her neck, making her skin crawl. She doesn’t turn around, just in case he’s still eating and because she doesn’t want to be scolded again. “Everyone follows a little different, but his  _ aliit _ , his clan, follow it traditionally. No living thing outside of the clan can see his face.”

“No one?”

“No one.” 

“Why not?” Boba sighs, just a soft exhale through his nose, and she hears the soft hiss of a helmet resealing before Din is speaking. His voice is as it always is, rough through the helmet, metallic yet warm. 

“This is the Way.” He murmurs, as if that answers a question.

“What way?” She asks, and Boba drains the blue drink in his glass. 

“The way of the  _ mando’ade. _ The mandalorians. To follow the  _ Resol’nare _ is to follow the six points of what it means to be a mandalorian.” 

“Could I?” She turns to him, regardless of whether he has his helmet on or not, but it’s firmly in place, along with that silly little head tilt. 

“You would want to?”

“Would I be strong, like you?”

Din pauses, stilling, before he chuckles softly and nods. “Yes.”

“Then I want to.” 

He goes still again, head tilting the other way, and eventually he speaks, slow and careful. “Alright. We train in the morning.”

“When do I get armor?”

“When you’ve trained, and learned the six points.”

“How long does that take?” Suddenly she’s eager for something- to fight, to be strong. To prove that she isn’t just some scared kid. 

“Years.” She scowls at the answer and Boba’s answering laugh, and shovels more food into her mouth, slumping between the two of them.

\--

Training, it turns out,  _ does _ start in the morning, and starts way too early for her liking. They’re out before the suns have risen over the horizon, with the cold sand biting at her toes as he shows her how to stand, to balance. She protests that she already knows, but one small shove has her toppling over, so she begrudgingly settles down next to him and does as he asks.

Her muscles cramp the longer they work, but it’s… Nice. She hasn’t done anything besides run and fight and scrape out a small, miserable existence, so this is… something else. They only work outside until the air starts to heat and the suns break the horizon, but she’s sweating already before the suns even hit her, and it’s mostly because of the workout Din has put her through. 

They break for food after she’s swaying on her feet, and she’s at the table, tearing into a plate of eggs and meat from last night when the woman from before comes in. She’s dressed in the same smart black as she was yesterday, and she pauses as the woman sits across from her and snags a roll, tearing into it. She’s  _ pretty _ . Her hair is nice, much nicer than the rat's nest of curls on her own head, and she wonders how her hair can be so  _ shiny _ . 

The other woman catches her staring more than once, and every time there’s something amused in her gaze. She doesn’t call Pavru on her staring and Pavru doesn't say anything until the other woman speaks. “Hey.”

“Huh?”

“What’s your name? Mine’s Fennec.”

“Pavru.” She mutters around a mouthful of eggs, swallowing and following it with a big swig of water. 

“Do you have anything?”

“Huh?” She says again, confused. 

“Clothes? A brush?” She looks down at her plate, running a hand through her hair self consciously. She hears Fennec huff softly before getting up, and she looks up when a shadow falls over her. The older woman holds a hand out, face smooth, and says, “C’mon. Men are useless for this kind of thing.”

“What kind of thing?”

Fennec’s grin is bright as she holds up a pouch full to bursting with the jingle of credits inside. “Spending money.” 

She looks at Fennec’s hand, debating, and takes it, allowing herself to be hauled to her feet.

That’s how she finds herself on the back of a speeder, clinging to Fennec as sand whips around them as they head for Mos Eisley. That’s also how she finds herself in a clothing shop, holding onto all the clothes that Fennec piles into her arms. She holds each one up, eying it critically and looking to her for approval. She sticks mostly to dark colors on principle of dirt, but she gravitates toward reds and purples, and they always end up in the growing pile in her arms. 

Fennec insists she buy a size too big, stating that she’ll grow, and she doesn’t fight her. The boots that Fennec picks out though, are sized to fit, and she’s wearing them as she clutches her bag, padding behind Fennec as they shove through the crowd. Her hand is tight in the older woman’s so that she won’t get lost, and she’s babbling, something she hasn’t done in… ever.

“Do you like being in the sand all the time? I woke up with it in my bed this morning and that wasn’t very fun.”

“Sand sucks.” Fennec says, and just the graveness of her tone makes Pavru giggle. “But I go where the boss goes.”

“Boba?” She thinks that’s his name and not a title, and when Fennec nods in agreement she relaxes a bit. “Is he nice to you?”

“He saved my life.”

“Do you like him?” 

Fennec smiles, glancing down at her, and Pavru grins back when she murmurs. “He’s alright.” Her gaze softens a bit, curious now, and she tugs Pavru out of the way of a bantha drawn cart as they edge around to head toward another shop. “Do you like him? He isn’t scaring you?”

Pavru pauses, considering, before she shakes her head. “He was scary at first but- he’s nice. Like Din.”

“Yeah?”

“Mhm! He gave me  _ two _ ration bars when we first met. And didn’t hurt me when I kicked him, or bit him.”

“You bit him?”

“He tried to grab me.” Fennec laughs, lips turning up in a smile, and she squeezes Pavru’s hand fondly. They duck into the only slightly cooler front of the shop, and she glances around. It doesn’t look like a store to her, just a bunch of chairs by mirrors, but Fennec has brought her here on purpose, and she jumps when a woman with blue skin pops up, grinning. 

“Here for a cut?”

“For her, please.” 

“Of course!” The woman waves her forward, Fennec taking the bag from her hand, and she stares, wide eyed as she’s led to one of the chairs. 

“Fennec?” Embarrassingly, her voice shakes, but Fennec comes up to her side and takes her hand again. 

“She’s going to cut your hair, to make it a little easier to manage. She won’t hurt you.”

“She has a  _ lot _ of scissors.” 

“Want to hold a pair?” The blue woman chimes in, grabbing what looks like her biggest pair and offering them to her. She takes them, grateful to have any kind of weapon, and Fennec backs off so the woman can work. At first she just brushes through her hair, working out the tangles and getting to know how it lays. She’s always cut it herself, with whatever she could find, and it falls in uneven waves around her head. “Any length you wanna go?”

“I get to choose?”

The blue woman’s eyes meet her in the mirror and she grins. “Of course. Whatcha thinkin?”

Pavru looks over at Fennec, grinning, and points. “I wanna look pretty, like her.” 

Fennec’s laugh is encouraging, and the woman gets to snipping. She evens the length, making it match without taking too much off, and once she’s done she sweeps it up into a braid, careful of Pavru’s horns. It’s tight, tugging on her scalp, but when she looks at herself, then at Fennec, she  _ beams _ . 

Fennec pays for the haircut while she admires herself in the mirror, wondering at the little waves in her braid. Once Fennec finally manages to pry her from the mirror the sun is high in the sky and her stomach growls. It’s been a long day of running around, and Fennec seems to know it too, because she takes her hand again and heads toward the speeder. 

“Let’s go back to the boys and get some lunch.”

Said boys are waiting for them, one much more anxious than the other, but once Pavru comes into sight his shoulders slump, relieved. She doesn’t run over to them, that would be undignified, but she does skid to a halt in front of them, smiling when Din reaches to tug on the end of her braid. 

“You two match. Did you have fun?”

“Mhmm!”

“Did you spend all of Boba’s money?”

“Yup.” Fennec says, popping the p on her lips and tossing the now much emptier credit purse to her boss. He scowls at the weight of it, but his face goes soft when he looks down at her. 

"And you,  _ mesh'la _ ?"

"Me?"

"Did you spend all my money?"

"There's some left." She points out, and the older man pauses before his laughter rings off the walls. His hand comes down to touch her shoulder briefly, and he's still laughing when he ushers them inside. 

She settles herself into a routine- in the morning she rises before the sun to train with Din. She eats breakfast with Fennec, and spends most of the day handling blasters with her while Din and Boba are off doing… who knows what. When evening comes and everyone is back home, they eat dinner, though sometimes she helps apply bacta patches to singed or torn skin before they sit down. She doesn't mind that part too much, and hunger, fury, don't sit quite so close to her anymore. After dinner she sits with Din and Boba, listening to the easy cadence of their mando'a- a language that Din insists she has to learn to be mandalorian, and one she enjoys more than she thought she would. Sometimes, when Din is too tired or has a call to take, she's left with Boba, who teaches her to play cards, and once she understands the rules, teaches her how to cheat at them. After, when her eyelids are drooping and she's dead on her feet, Din leads her back to bed, and stubbornly insists on tucking her in, no matter how many times she insists she's  _ twelve _ , not six. 

She's in bed, curled up under her blankets as Din smooths at the edge when he sits, mattress dipping under his weight.

"Are you happy here?"

"Yeah." She answers without hesitation- here she has food, water, people who treat her with kindness. What's not to be happy about?

"Would you…" he pauses, uncharacteristically hesitant, and she frowns, fear trickling in. "I have- to go home soon."

"This isn't home?"

"Not mine. Boba's, and Fennec's, but mine is- with my partner. Far, far away."

"Why didn't we go there?"

"We will, but- I don't want to take you if you're happy here." 

Panic flares in her at the thought of him leaving her here, and she reaches out for his hand without thinking, clutching it tight. "You can't leave me. You- I-I don't wanna-" 

She hiccups a breath, lips trembling, and Din reaches forward with his free hand to smooth her hair back, shushing her quietly. "Hey, hey, I'm not. I was only asking if you wanted to stay." 

"Wanna go where  _ you  _ go."

"Okay." 

Fear and panic sit heavy on her chest, pressing her into the bed, but Din holds her hand, smooths over her hair with the other, and she whispers in the cool Tatooine air. "I'm glad you found me."

Din's head turns, just a bit, and he heaves a slow breath before whispering back. "You found  _ me. _ "

She isn't quite sure what he means by that, but she's too tired to argue, and she drifts off with the feeling of a leather clad hand holding hers.

\--

They pack up to leave later that morning, and she's sad to go. She won't miss the sand or the scorch of the sun, but she's going to miss being here. They've only been on Tatooine for maybe a month, but in that time she's filled out with steady meals and fierce workouts, so when she stands on the ramp of the  _ Crest _ , her clothes don't hang from her. They aren't skin tight, but they finally fit.  _ She _ finally fits- Din is behind her, bags in hand, and Boba and Fennec are at the bottom of the ramp, watching. 

Fennec raises two fingers to her brow, saluting, and she smiles before mimicking the motion. Boba doesn't wave, dark eyes sad, and she tries her best to smile for him. Din touches her shoulder, murmuring quietly. "Ready?"

She nods, half turning, but then stops. She tugs on Din's arm, glancing up at him, and Din takes one look before he nods. It doesn't take much for him to understand, and she turns on her heel, bolting down the ramp. She jumps before she even gets to the bottom, arms going around Boba's neck and armor plates digging hard into her ribs. He catches her as easily as breathing, and she's careful of her horns when she hugs him tight, giggling when he spins her around once. 

" _ Ret'urcye mhi, Boba'vodu." _

Her pronunciation is a bit rusty, a little weak, but Boba grins like the sun, bumping their foreheads together once as his voice rumbles through her chest. " _ Ret'urcye mhi, Ru'ika. _ "

He puts her down after one more good squeeze and a kiss on his scarred cheek, and she bolts up the ramp, taking Din's hand at the top and waving until the ramp closes between them. She follows Din up to the cockpit, ascending the ladder, and he has her stand close as he begins the startup sequence. His voice is quiet as he explains each one, what they do, and only once the engines roar and sputter to life does he have her buckle. 

"Do I get to fly?" Din laughs, shaking his head at her question.

"We'll start small. A speeder first."

"Fennec let me drive a speeder already." She brags, and Din sighs heavily, muttering to himself. Eventually, once they're out into open space he turns to her. The engine hum as the drift, and he tucks her into the seat, his hands over hers on the yoke as he allows her to get used to the feeling. The ship is heavy under her hands but not unmanageable, and it's easy to float through space, turning left and right and easing up and down according to Din's instructions. 

“Okay. We’re going to jump to hyperspace now.” 

“Now?” Her voice doesn’t crack- she refuses to let it, but it goes high in panic, and Din nods.

“You hold her steady. I’ll increase the speed, and then drop us in, okay?”

“Okay.” She isn’t ready, not at all, but he nudges her to line up in the direction of…. Wherever they’re going, and holds tight to the yokes as he pushes forward on the throttle. She has to adjust a couple of times to account for the added speed, but Din’s voice is soothing in her ear as he talks her through it. 

“Tilt back a little, no- there you go. Do you feel the yoke shake? That’s as far as you want to push it. I’m going to drop in now, alright?” A nod from her has him reaching for a button, and he’s still murmuring when he presses it. “Hold steady, you’re doing fine- good,  _ good _ job, Ru.”

Her heart leaps into her throat as the ship settles into the blue-white smear of hyperspace, and she glances up at him with wide eyes. “I did it?”

Din nods, head tilting in that little smile of his, and she laughs, unbuckling herself and launching up. Much as she did with Boba, her arms go around Din’s neck, squeezing the life out of him. The brush of fabric tickles against her cheek as she pulls back, and she looks down at the purple scarf still around his neck. It’s been washed a few times, has a new hole or two, but he’s never taken it off. His cape, the one he gave to her so long ago is on the cot down below, ready for when she goes to bed. She tugs on it without thinking, rubbing the fabric between her fingers, and Din’s head tilts again. 

“Pavru?”

“How come I don’t get to see your face?” She tries not to let her voice shake, to show how nervous she is asking, but ever since Boba scolded her for looking she’s been thinking. 

“Because of my Creed.” Din says, voice only slightly tinged in confusion.

“But… but we’re family, aren’t we?” And there, her voice begins to tremble. She can’t hide it any longer, and she draws away from him, wringing her hands in front of her as she sinks back down into the pilots seat. They  _ were _ family, weren’t they? He’d taken her from Nevarro, from a place that she had eeked out a miserable existence devoid of happiness and brought her to Tatooine. Where she’d met Boba, met Fennec. Two of her favorite people in the entire world, who spoiled her endlessly, despite all of Din’s protests. But Din was her favorite- he was the one who tucked her in, who soothed her when she woke up screaming, who took her sloppy hits and punches with surprising grace when she didn’t know where she was in the dark of the night.

So they had to be  _ something _ , right? She wasn’t just- just some charity case? 

“Oh, oh  _ Cyar’ru _ -you  _ are _ . You are.  _ Ni kyr'tayl gai sa'ad, Pavru. _ ”

“I don’t know what that means.” She mutters, pressing the heel of one hand into her eye to keep the tears at bay. He laughs quietly, crouching, and waits until she looks at him.

“I know your name as my child. You’re  _ aliit-  _ clan.  _ Ni ceta,  _ don’t ever,  _ ever _ think you aren’t my daughter.”

“Your daughter?” Din nods, reaching up, and the hiss of his helmet unsealing is thunderous in her ears. The sight of his jaw sends her heart racing, and she looks away, like Boba taught her. Only this time the helmet comes off, and the cool beskar bumps against her fingers as Din offers it to her. She takes it, not knowing what else to do, and he chucks her gently under the chin. 

“My daughter. You can look.”

“Boba said-”

“ _ Aliit _ , remember?”

She looks up, not sure what he expects, but she giggles at what he sees. His mustache is a bit funny looking, an odd, nervous smile twisting his lips, but he’s- he’s as kind looking as he sounds, and her shoulders slump as tears brim over, a dam breaking in her chest. She allows herself to cry, holding the helmet in one hand while wiping at her eyes with the back of her hand. 

She doesn’t react when Din’s gloves hands touch her cheeks, smoothing her tears away as his forehead comes up to bump against hers. He murmurs quietly to her, and she cries harder. “ _ Uur, _ it’s okay,  _ nayc or'atu trikar _ ."

He lets her cry though, until she's thirsty and exhausted, and gives her a drink of water before bringing her to bed. She curls up on the cot, clutching his cape as he spreads the fabric over her. She can hardly keep her eyes open, but a faint memory comes to her, a lilting melody. Suddenly she has to know- "Do you sing?"

Din goes still at the end of the cot, blinking, and she watches the face emotions flit over his face. He's almost painfully sincere when he nods. "When you fall asleep."

"Will you sing now?" 

Din's eyes are dark and warm, just like Boba's, and she curls up a little tighter, hunkering down as he nods. "Of course."

She falls asleep to the sound of his voice, melodic and smooth, murmuring the words to songs he's known forever. She sleeps with the knowledge that no matter what- no matter  _ what _ , she's got someone on her team, somewhere in the galaxy. 

**Author's Note:**

> Mando'a translations:  
> Aliit- clan  
> Mando'ade- mandalorians, people who follow the Creed  
> Mesh'la- beautiful   
> Ret'urcye mhi- goodbye, literally maybe we'll meet again  
> Boba'vodu- bastardization of ba'vodu, or uncle, because he deserves a NICKNAME  
> Ru'ika- little Ru  
> Cyar'ru- darling Ru  
> Ni kyr'tayl gained sa'ad- I know your name as my child (adoption right)  
> Ni ceta- I'm sorry  
> Uur- literally means silence, used here more as hush  
> Nayc or'atu trikar- no more sadness


End file.
